The Edge of Great Read online

  As he finished his piece and gave a little bow, the room broke into applause. Carrie sat front and center, cheering loudly and beaming at her boyfriend. Mrs. Harrison, the music teacher, stepped forward.

  “Nice job, Nick. Almost as impressive as your last game against Glendale.”

  (What did I say about Nick being good at everything?)

  She searched the room, resting her gaze on me. “Okay, that leaves us with one last performance. Julie?”

  It felt like the eyes of every single person in the room were trained on me. I swallowed; my throat was dry.

  Flynn leaned in. “You got this,” she whispered.

  I cleared my throat, taking off my hat and shaking off my coat. I walked toward the center of the room, where the piano awaited me, like I was walking a plank. Every footstep I took thundered in my ears. As I moved past her, Carrie leaned over to whisper something to Nick, but I tried to shut her (and the rest of the room) out.

  One step at a time, I told myself, trying to channel some of Flynn’s confidence. You can do this.

  Sit at the bench. Hands over the keys. Foot on the pedal.

  I tried, I really did. I saw it in my head: I began to play. Just a few bars, the notes sounding stiff and uncertain for a minute. But then it was like … I don’t know, sort of like coming alive, like a big overhead stretch when you first wake up in the morning. It felt open, and free, and … right.

  Until Mom’s face appeared in my mind, too, bright and loving, blocking out everything else in the room.

  Back in real life, my fingers froze as a bowling ball sank to the base of my stomach. I couldn’t do this. I didn’t belong here. Not anymore.

  Without a word, I jumped up, grabbed my things, and ran from the room.

  Behind me, I could hear all my classmates reacting. Some were surprised—gasping, murmuring to one another. I didn’t dare glance at Flynn. I couldn’t stand her worrying or feeling sorry for me. And above all the whispers rose Carrie’s voice, clear and as sharp as glass. She was eating this all up, like I would have expected.

  “Is this the part when we clap?”

  Flynn caught up to me in the stairwell. “Julie!” Her voice echoed against the walls, tinny and high with worry.

  I stopped and turned. What was there to say?

  “They’re gonna kick you out of music.” She said it plainly. Flynn and I were always straight with each other.

  So I was going to be straight with her now, too. I took a deep breath. “I’m done, Flynn.”

  I ran off before she could say anything else.

  After the disastrous day I’d had at school, all I wanted was to be at home, curled up in my coziest sweats, the rest of the world blocked out and pushed away. Right away, I got comfortable at the kitchen counter. I was trying to shut out the memory of my humiliation, which meant I had my notebook out. I told myself I was “just” doing some freewriting—it wasn’t, like, song lyrics or anything.

  I definitely wasn’t writing music. I mean, that would be the last thing I would go to for a little inner peace these days.

  I heard footsteps and looked up to see Dad enter the room. He was a photographer, which meant that his working hours were all over the place. Quickly, I slid my notebook shut. He didn’t need to know about my “freewriting.”

  “Oh, good, you’re home,” he said. “I was just about to go watch your brother’s game. I’ve had photo shoots all day, haven’t even had a chance to eat. But—I did get a call today.”

  Busted. “Yeah, I figured as much.” What would he say, now that I was officially kicked out of the music program at school? I braced myself.

  “It was from my Realtor friend.”

  “Oh.” So, not the school, then. That bought me a little more time to figure out how I was going to break the bad news. Bright side.

  You got kicked out of music, Jules, my inner voice chimed in. There is no bright side here.

  “She said if we’re still serious about selling, she wants me to take some pictures for the website.”

  Pictures. For the website. Meaning, pictures of our house, which would soon be listed online as “for sale.” Our beautiful, comfortable, bright blue craftsman that I’d lived in my whole life. Did I want to move? I couldn’t say for sure. But the memories here … They were powerful. Painful. I felt Mom everywhere … and especially in her music studio. The space was filled with ghosts: of her music, of her passion. I couldn’t even bring myself to set foot in it these days.

  Dad had a point to make, though. “Which means we need to clean up the house, get rid of some stuff.”

  “Let me know how that goes.”

  “Nice try.” Dad smirked. “I was hoping we could all help out.” He took a deep breath, so tentative I knew immediately what was coming. “Maybe you could … tackle Mom’s studio?”

  There it is. For the second time that day, all the air left the room as my stomach clenched. I took a deep breath of my own and tried not to react.

  “Tu eres la experta,” he said. “You’re the expert. Your brother and I wouldn’t even know where to start.” He paused, waiting to see if I’d chime in. When I didn’t, he continued. “If you’re ready. I know it’s going to be hard, but we can do it.”

  My eyes welled. Dad was doing his best to fill Mom’s place for us, here at home … and he was missing her, too. I was a disappointment at music school, okay. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t try a little harder in other places, at other times, to do my part. “No, it’s all right,” I said. “Maybe I’ll start tonight.”

  “Gracias, mija,” Dad said. “And don’t forget the loft. Those old instruments that were here when we moved in need a home.”

  “Mom would like that,” I agreed.

  “Yeah. Why she kept those, I’ll never know …” He trailed off as he glanced at his watch. “Shoot, I’m gonna be late for your brother’s game.” He patted at his pockets, then glanced around the room, a familiar panicked look coming over his face.

  “Under the mail,” I said.

  He reached under the pile and swiftly pulled out his keys. “Gracias, mi amor.”

  He moved to the door. He was trying so hard. I knew I had to tell him about school. “Dad?”

  “Yeah?” His face was so expectant … I couldn’t do it.

  “Nada. Forget it,” I said. “Just tell Carlos good luck.”

  We could all use a little good luck around here these days.

  The moon had risen by the time I headed out to Mom’s studio. Our backyard was cast in a celestial glow, and the sound of crickets chirping surrounded me as I made my way to the converted garage. For the second time in one day, I found myself walking as slowly as possible, trying to put off an unpleasant moment. But here I was and there they were: the barn doors that opened into the studio. There was nothing left to do but go inside.

  I took a deep breath and opened the doors.

  I flicked on the lights first thing. I saw it right in the center of the space, just like always: Mom’s piano. It was draped in a cloth, looking just like the ghost of Mom’s music that dominated this whole room. Everything was still just as we’d left it—just as she’d left it: a ratty old sofa bed covered in a sheet, the colorful floor pillows and throw rugs that kept the place from looking like a garage and more like someone’s personal creative hideout.

  Too personal: The window curtains were faded, but they were printed with dahlias, Mom’s favorite flower. The sight of them made my stomach sink.

  I ran a finger along the surface of a side table, tracing a line in the dust that had gathered. Her teacup was still there, and the spoon she’d been using the last time …

  The last time.

  “Sorry I haven’t been in here, Mom,” I said into the emptiness.

  I pulled the sheet off the sofa and then removed the piano cover. The baby grand was, miraculously, still gleaming, as though Mom had been around taking care of it all this time. A few handwritten pages of sheet music fluttered to the ground. I hovered one
hand over the key lid, thinking about lifting it.

  Then I pulled my hand back again, sighing.

  I moved to the loft, just like Dad had asked. It was nothing but clutter: a few dusty old guitar cases, a drum kit, some random storage boxes, and a very old shoebox that I didn’t remember. A scratched-up CD in one corner caught my eye, resting against a boom box. (We were probably the only house in the neighborhood that still had a CD player.) The case read, Sunset Curve demo.

  I know I was supposed to be cleaning. But in that moment, I couldn’t help myself. It was like some force had come over me—maybe it was Mom herself?—telling me to play the CD. So I cued it up in the boom box and watched, waiting, as the disc spun. It wasn’t long before the room filled with the sound of soulful guitar rock. What was it the principal had said about my music classes? Oh, right: Now or never.

  Just like the chorus of this song.

  It felt weirdly meaningful. Goose bumps broke out on my arms. The air felt charged, like it does before a storm. Suddenly, the music cut off. All I could hear was the sound of wind, like it was rushing down a tunnel. Louder and louder still … until:

  BOOM!

  An ethereal ball of light exploded into the room! Then another, and then one more, each seemingly brighter than the last. I blinked, barely able to process what I was seeing. Slowly, the shapes materialized into …

  Three … guys?

  Correction: three cute guys.

  (Which I know didn’t really take away from the weirdness of the whole situation, but I couldn’t help but notice anyway.) One was blond; one had dark, wavy hair and dark eyes; and one looked … well, he looked exactly like he should be the lead of a boy band. I couldn’t describe it any better than that. He had floppy brown hair and blue eyes that—right now, at least—looked as confused as I was feeling.

  Get in line, buddy, I thought, my heart popcorning in my chest. Who were these guys, and what the heck were they doing in my mom’s studio? What do I do? Call the police? Call for Dad? I couldn’t do anything—I was glued in place, paralyzed by shock.

  And then, Floppy-Hair spoke. “Whoa, how did we get back here?”

  It was too much, hearing those words come from his mouth. He spoke. Words. Out loud, and I heard them.

  I opened my mouth to ask something—anything!—but all that came out was a panicked scream.

  The boys turned like they were noticing me in the room with them for the first time. Then they started screaming right back at me.

  The guys—the ones who appeared basically out of thin air—must have gotten over the shock quicker than I did. I was still screaming when the blond one finally winced, plugging his ears with his fingers.

  “Please stop,” he begged, straining to be heard over me.

  I did, but it wasn’t easy. “Who are you?” I demanded, quickly grabbing a cross off the wall and holding it out, like I was trying to ward off a pack of vampires. “Why are you in my mom’s studio?”

  “Your mom’s studio? This is our studio,” Floppy-Hair said, with a crooked smile that suggested he was sort of joking. But then he took a closer look around. “I mean, sure, the grand piano’s new … and the plants … and the lack of trash …” He trailed off. “Give me a second.”

  He moved to his friends, making a little huddle. I tried not to eavesdrop, but the garage isn’t all that big, and the acoustics were great. (That was part of what made it such a good music studio.)

  “What’s happening?” Floppy asked. “How’d she get her stuff in here so fast?”

  “Maybe she’s a witch,” the dark-haired boy put in.

  “There’s no such thing as witches.”

  “You sure?” Floppy countered. “’Cause I used to think there was no such thing as ghosts.”

  Ghosts. I shivered. That was what you called it when people appeared out of thin air. I gripped that cross more tightly. This is really happening, Jules.

  Ghosts. There were ghosts in my mother’s studio. Self-proclaimed.

  Floppy shrugged, like he was considering this. “So we’re going with witch?”

  The blond looked slightly panicked. “No! She’s just scared. Let someone with a softer touch handle this.” He turned to me, sincere. “Why are you in our studio?”

  My mind raced. Their studio?! I lunged forward toward him, swiping at him with the cross. But instead of making contact with the guy, the cross passed right through his body!

  “Oh my god!” I shrieked. “How did you do that?”

  He spoke slowly, like I was a little kid. “Since you’re obviously struggling with this: We’re ghosts. Three ghosts just happy to be home. And thanks for the plants—really brightens up the place.”

  I wanted to protest; I really, really did. But there was that whole thing about my hand having gone straight through his body. It was hard to ignore.

  “We’re also in a band,” Floppy added. “Called Sunset Curve.”

  “Tell your friends,” Dark-Hair chimed in. Next thing you know, he’d be offering me a band T-shirt or something.

  Floppy stepped forward, looking earnest. “Last night was supposed to be a big night for us. It was gonna change our lives.”

  “I’m pretty sure it did,” the blond quipped, totally deadpan.

  Deadpan. No pun intended.

  Ghosts. We were still talking about ghosts here. The only reason it wasn’t totally insane was because the alternative seemed to be their suggestion that I was a witch. And I knew that wasn’t the case.

  Well, there was one way to investigate this. Keeping one eye on the boys, I took a giant step back and pulled my phone out of my back pocket.

  I typed in Sunset Swerve, tapping frantically on the screen. “This is crazy,” I whispered to myself.

  “What are you doing? What’s that?” Floppy asked, craning his neck to see.

  Okay, what? Had these guys never seen a cell phone before?

  “It’s my phone,” I said, incredulous. Then, to myself again, “Nope, stop talking to them, they are not real. There’s no such thing as cute ghosts.”

  “You think we’re cute?” Dark-Hair asked, looking hopeful.

  I ignored him while the blond tried to peek at my phone. “Who are you calling?”

  I sighed. “I’m googling Sunset Swerve.”

  All together they shouted back at me, “Sunset Curve!”

  Sure, whatever, I thought. But before I could finish thinking it, the internet had brought back some disturbing answers.

  “Whoa. There is a Sunset Curve—not ‘swerve,’” I said. The boys looked briefly triumphant. “And you guys did die.” At this, they looked less excited. “But not last night.” I looked up, not sure how to break the news to them. “You died … twenty-five years ago.”

  The room went still. Then Dark-Hair—the internet told me his name was Reggie—stepped forward, upset.

  “What? That’s impossible. After we floated out of that ambulance, all we did was go to that weird, dark room where Alex cried.”

  Alex—the blond—stiffened. “Uh, I believe we were all pretty upset.”

  “And it was only for, like, an hour,” Floppy-Hair—Luke, according to Google—put in. “And then we showed up here.”

  It all sounded … well, I couldn’t say how it sounded, exactly. This being my first experience with ghosts. “I’m just telling you what my phone says.” I held it out to them. “See—you died in 1995, when you were seventeen. Now it’s 2020.”

  “This is the future?” Reggie said, taking another look around the studio.

  Weirdest. Day. Ever.

  “Wait, wait. Hold up,” Alex protested. “So it has been twenty-five years? I was crying for twenty-five years? How is that possible?”

  “Well, you are very emotional,” Reggie said.

  “No, I’m not!” Alex replied, totally emotional.

  We were so busy freaking out over the situation for all of our own personal reasons, no one noticed that Carlos—still in his baseball uniform—had entered the room un
til he spoke.

  “Dad thought you might be out here,” he said, looking at me while also eyeing the room. The boys froze in place. “Who are you talking to?”

  “Can he see us?” Alex whispered to Reggie.

  I watched Carlos carefully. I could tell from his body language that he definitely had no idea that the ghosts of a nineties boy band had materialized in the room with us. Which was good, since it would be a tough thing to explain away.

  “No, he can’t,” I said to the boys, briefly forgetting that Carlos, too, would hear me say that.

  Carlos looked at me like I was out of my mind. “What?”

  “¿Qué tu quieres, Carlos?” I asked, defensive. Maybe I was out of my mind. Probably.

  “I want a normal sister, for starters,” he suggested. “Stop being weird and come eat.” He left.

  Once he was gone, I had to figure out what to do about these guys—these ghosts. And I had no clue.

  “Look, I’m sorry for what happened to you guys, truly. But this isn’t your studio anymore,” I told them. “You have to leave.”

  And I had to eat dinner and pretend everything about this day was still completely and totally normal. Not that I had any idea how to do that.

  I’d thought it was going to be hard keeping the news from Dad about music school. And it was. But that was nothing compared to the performance of a lifetime: normal Julie at family dinner with a boy band of ghosts in her garage.

  We’d left our usual place set for Mom, clasping hands over her empty chair while Carlos said a quick grace. “Thank you for our leftovers and the power of the mighty microwave. Amen.”

  “Amen,” Dad and I echoed.

  Right away, Dad and Carlos dug in. I was distracted, though, pushing bites of food around the plate with my fork. My gaze kept wandering toward the garage; I was thinking about those boys … Sunset Curve. Why were they here? Like, on this earth again, after they died? But more specifically, why were they here? Like, in my house? (Well, technically, my garage, but you get what I mean.)

  “Carlos said he found you in Mom’s studio,” Dad said, breaking into my thoughts. “You okay handling that?”